


The End of a Dream, Redux

by yumehasaigo



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumehasaigo/pseuds/yumehasaigo
Summary: “They’re saying if you fall in a dream and don’t wake up before you hit the ground, you’ll die."





	The End of a Dream, Redux

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote the original version of this in high school, years ago; this redux came together for a university course and barely resembles the original. I hope you all enjoy it - I'm pretty proud of how it turned out. :)

There’s a pretty strange rumor going around recently. It’s on everyone’s mind, dominating chat boards and news headlines. People can’t get enough of it. Doctors, specialists, even average citizens are being asked their opinions and clearly stating them – and, although it seems pretty out there, people are starting to take it seriously. The rumor began making the rounds after a string of weird deaths: a series of people were found dead in their beds, ranging in age from children to the elderly, with no similarities between them. No illnesses, nothing. It doesn’t seem to be a one-time thing either. People keep dying, one after the other, and no one’s quite sure what to do.

“Hey, have you heard?” the conversation usually starts, the person smiling conspiratorially at their subject. “They’re saying if you fall in a dream and don’t wake up before you hit the ground, you’ll die. That’s supposed to be what’s getting all those people in the news.”

This time the subject is you, sitting at a hole-in-the-wall diner table across from your co-worker and friend, Anna. She’s practically beaming at you, hoping for a reaction that she’d never get from this kind of talk; all she receives is an eye roll.

“How do you know?” you ask her. “Anyone it happened to would be dead, right? Can you tell what they were dreaming?”

“I mean, they all croaked in their sleep, right? And none of ‘em were sick or anything – the news would’ve picked up on that if the doctors even thought it.” She was gesturing quickly as she spoke, almost flailing her arms in her excitement. “And there were no injuries or anything, so—” She trails off. Withers a little under your cynical gaze, then averts her eyes and puffs her cheeks a little.

“That’s just what people are saying,” she finally mutters, removing the silver ring from her forefinger and spinning dejectedly it on the table. Her words were nearly lost in the hustle and bustle of the diner around the two of you, the lunch rush bringing with it the din of human voices and clattering dishware. You were just barely able to catch them.

“Yeah. I don’t believe it. Not until the pros say it’s real. Rumors and gossip aren’t reliable sources, you know. All the facts get lost. It’s like that telephone game from elementary.” You cast your eyes to the CRT near the back of the diner – you didn’t even know those existed any more, let alone that people still used them – and noted that the ‘Sleeping Deaths’ were once again the main topic of discussion on the news channel it was tuned to. You can barely avoid it at this point.

Anna looks like she’s about to retort, but is unceremoniously silenced by a plate piled high with a burger and fries being slid onto the table in front of her, nearly knocking her ring off the table. She scrambles to grab the band and just manages to before it falls to the ground. Heaving a sigh, she slides it back onto her finger.

“Anything else you need, dears?” the waitress asks as she sets your plate in front of you, smiling calmly despite the hubbub. You both reply in the negative and, nodding, she hustles off to her other tables while you start shoveling food in your mouth. Anna looks like she wants to start talking again, so you pause and remind her that you only have an hour for lunch – and that finding the place and waiting on the food already took most of it. With that reminder she begins to eat, and you feel a rush of triumph that’s only slightly marred by the knowledge that she’ll definitely bring it up again when you’re back at the office.

~*~

The lights of the city shine in around the edges of your blackout curtains when you get back to your apartment, and when you flick the switch on the wall the overhead light reveals a clock in the den that seems to mockingly remind you of the time: 8:42 PM. Work was busy today – too busy – and you’re exhausted to your bones, fatigue clouding your mind. You know you need to sleep, but a shower would probably be a good idea. You need to put the laundry on too, unless you want to be without clothing after tomorrow, so you set about putting that together and then immerse yourself in enough steam and water that you know your bill will probably run higher than usual.

When you come out of the bathroom, though, dressed for bed, your body feels relaxed from the warmth. You yawn, stretching a little. Then you collapse onto the mattress, face landing in a mountain of pillows.

You don’t remember how long it takes you to get to sleep, but for some reason Anna’s words float into your consciousness as you slip under: “They’re saying if you fall in a dream and don’t wake up before you hit the ground, you’ll die.”

~*~

Your dream that night is too vivid, all neon lights and technicolor. People pass you by on watercolor streets, their faces drowned in shadow and their bodies shifting through rainbow hues. The air is filled with the static sound of voices and electricity, familiar yet oddly disconcerting in this setting. You reach out to touch someone – probably to ask where you are – but when your fingertips brush their shoulder they shudder and lose their form, sloshing into a pool of oil by your feet.

You feel a chill in your bones. A sound claws at your throat. The people around you seem not to notice what’s happened. The liquid remains of the faceless person soak into the street. Before long it’s like they never existed. A luminous foot treads on the ground where its peer melted and the scream finally wrenches its way out of you. You turn and run.

It’s hard to breathe. The rainbow bodies pass you by as if you’re not moving at all, even though the scenery blurs and your legs pump and your breath burns in your throat and your heart threatens to burst from your chest.

Suddenly the street ends in a jagged drop and gives way to space, dark as the void. You scream and stumble, almost losing your balance. Somehow you manage to throw yourself onto the ground behind you. Watercolor pebbles tumble over the edge where your feet upset them, and they vanish into the abyss with no sound to indicate an end to their descent. You gasp for air, lying on the ground, your eyes shut tight.

When your breathing calms, you notice that the ambient noise is gone. The din of normal activity has vanished; all you can hear is your breath and the errant pounding of your heart. You open your eyes. The colour surrounding you burns, and you have to blink a couple times before your surroundings come into focus. Then you realize what’s wrong.

All of the people are gone. The street behind you is slick and darker than before, bouncing colours back where it’s hit by the light. As you stare it shifts, the wetness melting away into the watercolor pavement; then any trace of them has disappeared.

Unsteadily you rise to your feet and take a few tentative steps away from the precipice. The silence grows louder around you. It presses on your from every direction, seeming to try and flatten you to the ground. Like it’s sentient and wants to turn you into oil, too. Then a shiver skitters down your spine, violent in its intensity, and you whip around to see someone standing behind you – someone who doesn’t belong.

First off, he looks like a normal person. You can see his face and his skin where you can see it is pale. He has a mane of dark hair that’s been plaited and thrown over one shoulder. He almost looks like a biker in his ripped t-shirt and faded jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets but posture straight and confident. But his eyes are wrong. They’re deep and dark and endless as the void he’s standing in front of, and they’re not touched at all by the bright smile on his face.

Without a word he approaches you. Instinctively, you move to take a step back – and your heel meets air. You want to look behind you, dreading what you’ll find, but in the blink of an eye he’s close enough for you to feel his breath, with one long finger pressing into your chest. His presence demands your attention. His smile almost splits his face in two.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice melodic and tinkling. “If you hit the ground, you’ll die.”

He flattens his hand and pushes. Then all you feel is air.


End file.
